


Gumbo

by Zighana



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Drama, Exes, F/M, Hoodoo, NOLA, Original Female Characters of Color - Freeform, Plus Sized Female Character, Rekindled Romance, Southern Comfort Food, Southern Folklore, Southern Gothic elements, Superstition, Takes place during the entire series, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2020-12-24 16:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21102584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zighana/pseuds/Zighana
Summary: Oscar likens his relationship to the comfort food in the South: flavorful, addictive, and leaves a sour taste in his mouth once it's all over. And yet, he still wants another piece.





	1. Peach Cobbler

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely different than the other fanfics with Spooky. I just wanted to play around a bit and try something new. 
> 
> This takes place before, during, and after Spooky’s 4 year prison sentence as well as a before the season finale of Season 2.
> 
> Hope you like!

He met her at a Botanica of all places. 

He’d come there to find prayer candles for a memorial he was going to hours prior; there she was, one aisle over, studying glass jars and muttering to herself in a language he’d never heard before. 

She’s far from the type he’d go for; she’s short and fat, wearing finger-waves like an oil slick with chunky earrings that dangle. She reminds him of those hood black girls that roll their neck and always got something smart to say, proving his theory when he sees her long acrylic nails tap against the jars with soothing clicks. 

She notices him staring and turns, showing Oscar a face with fat cheeks, plush purple lips and the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen. Almond-shaped, honey-brown with hints of green that seems to glow when the sun hits it just right, contrasting against her copper skin. 

“Can I help you, dawlin’?” She asks in English. 

“You got some pretty ass eyes.” Oscar blurts out, damning himself for his default tone being aggressive. The woman blinks and smiles thinly at him.

“Thank you. That all you wanted to say to me?”

“Where are you from?” He asks.

“New Awlins.” She answers. Her manicured eyebrow raised, she eyes him up and down before asking, “Where _you_ from?” 

“Here.” he answers. He gets a whiff of her perfume when he moves closer, entering her personal space. 

“For a big girl, you make one fine ass hyna.” He says, trying to work his charm.

The woman pauses. After gaining her composure, she says, “you have a nice day, sir.” and walks away, the glass jars long forgotten. 

“Hey, wait,” he calls after her. He grabs her hand when he catches up to her. She turns to face him again, those eyes staring him down. 

“Yes?” She asks.

“I didn’t mean to offend. I was just saying...you pretty. With some nice eyes.”  
“Is that all?”

“Come on, now…”

“What you want from me, mister?” There’s bass in her voice. 

“Your name. And...your number..” 

“If I give it to you, will you let go of my hand?” 

Oscar looks down.

His hand is still holding hers so lightly, his thumb stroking her fingers on reflex. 

He lets go. 

“Sorry.”

The woman pulls out her phone. 

“Ella-Marie,” she tells him. 

“Oscar, but...people call me Spooky.”

“Okay...Spooky.” She chuckles, drawing out the o’s with her accent.

He leaves the Botanica shortly after, the prayer candles long forgotten and her perfume still lingering on his hand. 

~~~~

He calls her a week later; he didn’t want to come off as desperate. He was positive it was a fake number until she’d picked up with a soft “hello?”

They had a date, or something close to it; they were going to a diner on the other side of town to grab a bite before hitting the roller rink. Something simple, low-key, little pressure; most importantly, no one he knows is going to see him fall on his ass on a pair of skates.

He leans against the jukebox, waiting for her to walk in the door. 

The lady of the hour walks into the diner, dressed like she could’ve went to high school with his grandmother: high-waisted bell-bottom jeans, orange halter top and long auburn hair that frames her face in Farrah Fawcett swoops with aviator shades and heart-shaped earrings. She takes her shades off and smirks at him, her peach lip gloss shining like candy. 

The two sit across from one another in silence, Ella-Marie looking at the menu and Oscar checking his phone. The waitress comes to them, notepad in hand. 

“Hey, my name is Ginger and I’ll be your server tonight. What would you like?”

“Get whatever you want.” He tells her. A smile tugs on her lips. 

“Ohhh...you got money, huh? Big balla’ shot calla’.” She jokes. Oscar notices she’s got a gold tooth right next to her left canine. 

The waitress leaves with their orders. Ella-Marie leans forward on her elbows, her breasts perched on the table. 

“I’ma be real with you,” she starts, “ain’t nobody paid for my meal befo’.” She whispers it like a secret. 

Then the walls come down: the two delve into conversation. She’s an aspiring actress that left her home in NOLA to be famous; it took everything not to laugh at her dream. Damn near everybody that comes here has that same sob story; he didn’t bat an eye when she complains about not booking anything outside of the gigs that pay in “experience”.

He didn’t know which hurt more: her lack of self-awareness in her journey or her blind optimism. 

“I’m gon’ be somebody.” she tells him, lifting a pancake with her fork, “you gon’ see my name on billboards and whatnot. I just gotta keep at it.”

_Good luck_, he thinks, taking a sip of his black coffee. 

~~~~

They make it to the roller rink: Oscar watches her glide on her roller skates from the bench. She weaves through people, arms outstretched like a bird. She’s laughing and smiling, swaying her hips to the music as she soars to him, her skates stopping with a soft scrape. 

“How come you not coming in?” She asks.

“I’m only here for the music.” He replies. She sucks her teeth.

“You don’t know how to skate, do you?” 

“I never said that.”

“But you ain’t out dere skatin’. Sound like you don’t know how.”

She holds out her hand. 

“I’ll show you. Just hold on to me.” She offers. 

“Naw.”

“Come on, now. It ain’t gon’ kill you and nobody gon’ see. Come on.”

She wiggles her fingers, her long acrylics grazing his arm. She grabs his hand anyway and pulls him, Oscar almost falling over if she hadn’t caught him.

“Goddamn you strong.” he grunts out. She giggles. 

“Years on the farm. Come on. Bend your knees...there you go, now move one foot in front of the other...relax, you ain’t gon’ fall, I got you…”

Wobbly knees, he jerks awkwardly to the rink, Ella-Marie holding on to his arm. 

“Relax. You in good hands. Just do what I do...we gotta be in sync, like dis’.” 

She guides him to the left, him stumbling to follow.

“Smoove, baby. Smoove.”

He’d never heard someone say ‘baby’ like that, and goddamn is it doing something to him. Ella-Marie is in front of him now, pulling him close and wrapping his hands around her waist. 

“You move, I follow, okay?” She tells him. 

He does, swaying to the right, her following. 

“Good. Now, keep moving.”

Soon the two move to a rhythm, waltzing through the roller rink while oldies’ love songs play. Ella-Marie sinks into him, the top of her hair tickling his shoulders. He wraps his arms tighter, rocking the both of them into a slow dance.

The love song hits a crescendo when the two look at each other. Ella-Marie’s eyes got a spark in them, her nose touching his chin. He swoops in and kisses her, the taste of peaches on his tongue.

Peaches.

That’s her new nickname.


	2. Pralines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar learns a valuable lesson about his Peaches.

Peaches is swimming in the pool, her clothes long forgotten. She does backflips, dolphin kicks, freestyle, until she floats on her back, her breasts exposed to the cold air. Oscar sits poolside, smoking his cigarette and trying not to get splashed. 

The moonlight casts a soft light over the pool, bathing him in inky black shadows, save for the red dot from his cigarette. 

Peaches pokes her head from the pool, long acrylics tapping against the edges. 

“Come in.” She goads. 

“Told you I’m good.” He retorts. 

“I don’t do pools.” 

Peaches hops out of the pool, the lights putting her naked body on full display as she struts to him. He squints hard enough and he can see the tattoo of a broken heart on her upper left thigh…

Her hand grabs his. 

“Come on, baby.” She says.

He manages to slide off his clothes and jumps in with her, feeling the warm water welcome him. He looks to his right and sees Peaches, her short hair floating around her like a halo. She kicks off, swimming towards the shallow end. He follows her, about to grab her ankle, when she dives down to do a handstand, mocking him. He comes up for air, looking around. 

Coast is clear.

Peaches comes up shortly behind him, slicking her hair back.

“Why you got me in the pool?” He asks.

“‘Cause it don’t make sense comin’ here if one person swimmin’.” She teases. 

The pool lights make those hazel eyes sparkle. 

“Race you. I move quick like lightning.”

Oscar sucks his teeth.

“We in the middle of the pool. That’s cheating.” 

“Don’t be a sore loser when we ain’t even started.” Peaches swims to the deep end. 

“Alright. First one to swim three laps wins. Loser got to run around the pool.” 

“How many?” She asks. 

“Two.” He replies. She laughs and shakes her head. 

“Light work.” 

“Ready?” 

Oscar readies himself. 

“Go!” He kicks off and swims with ease. The shallow end was fast approaching, this is child’s play-

Peaches glides past him in slow strides. Faster than he can blink, she’s already at the shallow end before she does a flip turn and zips by him towards the deep end once more. 

By the time he finishes his second lap, she’s back at the shallow end, leaned against the tiles. 

“I ever tell you I was JV in Swim in my high school days?” Peaches asks when he finishes his last lap. 

“Cheater.” He huffs. 

“No, you smoke too damn much.” She says, 

“And ya’ form sloppy.” 

“Whatever.” Oscar gets out of the pool, Peaches trailing after. 

He takes off into a sprint around the pool twice and sits down beside her, trying to control his breathing. 

They sit side by side, Oscar fishing into his soggy box of cigarettes to light another one. 

“What you wanna do next?” 

“My backseat is always available.”

Peaches sucks her teeth.

“You know I ain’t that type of lady.”

“Come on, Peaches—”

“Don’t call me that. I don’t like that name.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s ghetto.” 

“Your name is Ella-Marie.”

“And what about it? Your name is a description of Halloween, so you got no leg to stand on, baby.”

“Can’t I just call you something else? Like _Mariella_?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my fucking name either you say the whole thing or don’t say it at all.” 

She turns her nose. 

“My grandmama named me Ella-Marie Chanel, but it don’t sound right.” 

Oscar pauses.

“Chanel. That’s pretty. I like that.”

“Chanel?” Her mouth twists like she’d eaten rotten fruit.

“Chanel is pretty. It’s the name...of a _star_.”

She pauses at the revelation, her eyes wide enough to reflect the pool lights.

“You think so?” She asks. 

“It’s a name made for a star. I know you’re gonna be a star, _Chanel_. I see it in you.” 

She kisses him softly, holding his head in place with her hand. He kisses her back, pressing her into the tiles. 

“Hey!” 

A flashlight is on them.

The two shoot up and scramble, snatching their clothes and running. 

“Come back here! I need backup, we got two naked perverts and one of them got a tattoo of—”

Chanel and Oscar turn the corner and fall into the bushes, barely clothed.

Chanel is yanking her dress over her head while Oscar buckles his pants.

“Last time I ever let you talk me into doing something like this.” Chanel wheezes out before giggling. 

“I think my panties are somewhere…”

Oscar hands it to her. 

“You got my shirt?” He asks.

Chanel chucks it to him. 

“Spooky...how far is your car?” 

“‘Round the corner.”

“Okay. We going to my place.” 

~~~

“I normally don’t invite men to my home, but in these instances, I’ll make exceptions.”

A light switch comes on. 

Plants are everywhere: hanging from the ceiling, on walls, some are held in a variety of pots and holders scattered across her living room. Her couch is clearly thrifted from the worn green fabric with decorative pillows intricately placed. Her floors are cheap linoleum with plush earth tone rugs and bookshelves stuffed with books that look older than time itself. 

Her walls have framed photos of black women, some of which bear a striking resemblance to her; one of which is a black and white photo of a dark-skinned woman with long black hair in pigtails and her necklace adorned with feathers and beads. Her cold eyes and judgmental frown sends chills down Oscar’s spine. 

There, in her kitchen, sitting on the island counter, is the most unsettling thing.

A figurine of a black woman wearing blue greet him, her face covered by a veil of cowrie shells. The sculpted water is splashed around her as her body contorts into a frozen dance, a hint of a smile on her lips. The counter has other figurines, around them are photos of elderly black women and men, jars of strange substances, multicolored candles, and dried flowers. 

“Good evening, guys. Hope you don’t mind I brought company.” She says to the figurines, much to Oscar’s curiosity. She sets her keys down on the countertop before walking into her kitchen.

“You hungry?” She asks. She’s pulling a Pyrex pan out of her oven and turns the stove on. 

“No, no thank you.” Oscar replies. She sucks her teeth.

“I can’t eat in front of people and not offer them none. You eating something.” 

“Well...what you making?”

“Leftovers. Some chicken alfredo and steak. Nothing major.” 

“I’ll take it.” 

The smell of garlic and spices fill the air.

“What’s in it for you?” She asks, her back turned to him still.

“I’m sorry?” 

“You know good and well I ain’t your type and _somehow_, by the grace of _God_, you want _me_. I’m waiting for the catch.” 

“What do you think is my type?” Oscar challenges. Chanel shuts off the stove and faces him.

“Those white girls named _Sarah_ and _Bethany_.” She pronounces with a nasally tone. Oscar bites back a chuckle.

“Far from my type.” 

“Please. They’re everybody’s type here.” 

Chanel makes their plates and guides Oscar to sit at the table. 

The two sit across from one another, Oscar scooping a spoonful of alfredo in his mouth.

“The ancestors told me you don’t have my best interests at heart.”

He chokes on a piece of shrimp.

“You got this from...talking to your ancestors?” He rasps, snatching a bottle of water.

“Do you have my best interests at heart?” She asks.

“We’ve been on...three dates.”

“Answer the question, Spooky.”

“I don’t know.” 

“I like you, Spooky. I want to take things further...” 

His eyebrow arches.

“Further?” He prods.

“But, I can’t do that if I know I’m gonna wind up with egg on my face. So if I don’t know by tonight if it’s smart to put all my eggs in one basket, I have to cut my losses—”

“—I like you. You smell good. And your lips taste like peach candy. I want to see where this goes.”

“I don’t want to be made a fool of.”

She sets down her fork, her face stern. 

“You won’t.” He promises.

_“You play with me, you play with fire.”_ she warns, her tone low and gravely. 

Chills shoots down his spine. 

“Trust me,” Oscar starts. He walks over to her and grabs her hand. She freezes, her eyes searching him before he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. 

She melts into the kiss, humming in approval as he’s kissing her neck and sliding her dress off of her. 

She halts him, kissing him chastely in the lips. Taking his hand, she guides him down the hall to her bedroom. 

~~~ 

“Yo, where’d you get those hickeys, dude?” 

“Your mom, bro.” Oscar deadpans, much to the jeers and hisses from his friends. 

It’s a birthday...baby shower…he doesn’t fucking remember...being thrown at his house. All he knows is he’s bored out of his mind and would much rather be alone and asleep. 

He walks to another ice chest and snatches another beer before heading to the snack table. 

The stack of pralines is still on the table, untouched. 

He opens the cling wrap and takes one, biting into it. 

Sweet, creamy, and nutty flavors override his tongue as he chews. In a matter of seconds, the flavor melts like cotton candy and the nutty flavor remains. 

He takes another, and another, until half the plate is gone. 

“What you snacking on, homie?” 

His friend Sad Eyes asks, eyeing the pralines with curiosity. 

“Pralines.” Oscar answers, offering him the plate. Sad Eyes takes one, biting into it cautiously. 

He hums. 

“These is hella good. Who made ‘em?” 

“Friend of mine from NOLA.” 

“Where’s that?” 

_“New Awhlin’s.”_

“Why you say it like that?” 

“That’s how they pronounce it.” 

Sad Eyes nods and takes another praline. 

Good enough for him. 

_“Hey, who’s that?”_

Oscar turns his head and his blood runs cold. 

It’s Chanel, wearing a long-sleeved wrap dress with tropical print, chunky earrings, and white wedges. In her hands is the to-go plate he forgot at her apartment. She sees Oscar and struts towards him. 

“Hey, Spooky!” She greets with a smile. The partygoers turn to face Oscar, who wants nothing more than to sink to the ground. 

She looks around and her confident gait halts. 

“Why y’all looking at me for? Ain’t never seen a big fine woman befo’?” She asks the crowd, wiggling her manicured nails and flashing her gold tooth smile. 

“You’re not supposed to be here.” He answers. Chanel looks around, her confused smile still there. 

“I’m not gon be here long, I just wanted to give you your to-go plate…” 

“You must be mistaken. _You don’t belong here, so go_.” 

Chanel’s expression morphs into true annoyance, like _he’s_ the inconvenience. 

“Spooky...you really gon’ show out in front of ya lil friends?” 

The crowd ooh’s and snickers in response. 

“Get the fuck out of here.” Oscar hisses through gritted teeth. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, ya heard me.” Chanel says, her hand on her hip and her stance firm. 

Oscar feels eyes on every inch of his body and heat rushes up his spine. He stalks towards her, his height dwarfing hers. She doesn’t flinch. 

_“Get the fuck out of here.”_ He hisses, nudging her with his knuckles into her chest. She doesn’t budge. She maintains eye contact before calmly taking the wrapping off the to-go plate and smashes it into his face. 

Gasps, shouts, and obscenities break out into the crowd as the plate falls in the patchy grass with a sickening plop. 

When Oscar wipes the red beans and rice, shrimp, and crawfish from his face, Chanel was already gone. 


	3. Jambalaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chanel’s newfound fame causes a rift in the relationship.

Oscar sits, nestled between Chanel’s soft thighs, feeling the buzzer shave off the last remaining clumps of his hair. Her long nails tickle his scalp as she works; it takes everything not to laugh or sink deeper between her thighs. 

“You lucky I’m still sweet on you.” she quips, shutting off the razor with a soft click. Oscar runs his fingers over his scalp and hums in approval. 

“After a face full of red beans and rice, I’d say we’re good.”

“Be glad it wasn’t_ hot grits_.” 

There’s an edge to her voice when she says that. 

She lets out a chuckle.

“Like I said, be glad I’m sweet on you.” She adds, rising from his bed. Oscar pushes her on her back, straddling her. Their noses touch, and he smirks.

“How sweet?” He asks. 

She pecks him on the lips. 

“Cornerstore honey-bun sweet.” she giggles. 

They kiss, Oscar wrapping her thighs around his hips before slipping his hand between them to touch her in that spot he knows all too well.

“Wait a minute hold on, I’m not trying to do all that,” she pants out, halting him. 

“I got to be somewhere.”

“Where?” He asks against her neck. She nudges him off her. 

“I have a very important audition. It’ll make or break my career.”

“To play an extra in a music video again?”

“No, this is an actual speaking part this time.” Chanel places her hand over her chest.

“I’m auditioning to be the love interest. This role is of a woman who...wants everything, but can’t have it.” Chanel looks down.

“I know they want a thin white girl or some light bright that got the good hair, but...I’m hungry for it. I embody this role and I gotta audition.” 

“Ambitious.” Oscar replies. 

“The character got a Southern accent?”

“I been taking speech classes, now. I can now talk like a white girl. See?” Chanel coughs. 

“Hi, my name is Chanel Walters and I’m here to audition for the role of Harlowe?” She says slowly, stressing each word with wide eyes and a plastic smile on her face. 

“How’s that?” She asks, her accent back. 

“Like it hurts. Your speech teacher wouldn’t happen to be Sarah Palin, would she?” He replies. She sucks her teeth.

“Whatever. I gotta go. You coming over for dinner, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“If I get the part we celebrate!” Chanel calls out as she snatches her purse and runs out of his home. He watches her get into her car and peel off down the driveway, her perfume still on his skin. 

~~~

The smell of spices, shrimp, and Andouille sausages makes his stomach growl. 

Chanel is still in the kitchen, chopping the bell peppers for the jambalaya. 

“Didn’t think you’d be so early!” she huffs as she rushes to the wok to toss the meat and rice around. Oscar grabs the knife from her and slices the vegetables with rapid speed before tossing them into the pan. 

“How’d your audition go?” He asks when she finally dinner. 

“I...didn’t get the part.” Chanel replies. She’s gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles show. 

“Didn’t matter that I knew the lines forwards, backwards, upside down. Didn’t matter that I spoked the Russian dialogue fluently. Didn’t matter that they loved me and adored me. _I didn’t look the part_.”

She sets the fork down. 

“They wanted a thin white girl over me. They always do.” She adds, her voice a wavering whisper. She runs her hands over her face and lets out a shaky sigh. 

“It don’t matter how hard I try, or how dedicated I become. I have to be _twice as good_ to get _half_ the work.”

“I mean...what did you expect? You audition for those white films that only want to see white people on their screen. Anybody outside that gotta be the sidekick, the thug, or if you lucky enough,” Oscar takes a sip of his water, “_The love interest_.”

“Because I wanna see people that look like me on-screen.” Chanel replies, clasping her hands together. There’s a spark in her eyes.

“Ever since I was little, I wanted someone that looked like me being seen as beautiful, smart, the star. I got tired of waiting and figured if they wasn’t gon’ do it I’ll do it myself. And here I am.” 

“Welcome to Los Angeles,” Oscar deadpans. 

“I’m not gon’ give up. I’ll come back tomorrow and make them see it’d be a mistake not picking me.” 

“What’re you gonna do? Cast a spell on them to change their mind?” 

Chanel’s smirk is that of a cat plotting to eat the family bird. Oscar swallows in response. 

“We’ll see.”

~~~ 

Nine months have passed. 

Nine months since Chanel had mentioned the audition and kept silent ever since. 

Oscar sits in his shithole living room, scrolling through shows to watch on his Netflix, when he stumbles across it.

There, Chanel is posed, dressed in 1960s fashion, staring seductively at a white man smoking his cigar and looking off into the distance. In bold font, is the title DRIED INK.

He clicks on it.

Through the trailer and the description of the series, he figures out the plot: A reporter is looking for his missing wife and forms a bond with a woman named Honey Baby (who Chanel plays), who has secrets of her own. Together the two find clues to find the reporter’s missing wife and uncover a government conspiracy that jeopardizes both of their lives in the process. 

Oscar has watched the trailer six times, and still his mouth hasn’t picked up off the floor. Chanel is almost unrecognizable; in the few snippets he’d seen this...Honey Baby...she is poised, ruthless, and calculating, with a Boston accent to match. This character doesn’t crack under pressure and she’ll slit your throat without thinking twice about it. 

This character...is sexy. The way she looks at the camera and licks the blood from her lips during combat makes Oscar’s ears hot and his pants tighten. 

Was this woman hiding in Chanel this whole time? 

He sees the release date.

Two weeks. 

He’s for sure gonna binge that shit.

“You found anything to watch?” 

Oscar looks up. Chanel leans against his kitchen entryway, wearing sweatpants and her t-shirt bunched up into a knot under her breasts, her makeup now minimal and her finger-waves dyed a faded peach. In her arms is the caramel popcorn he wanted her to make. 

“You got anything you wanna tell me?” He asks. 

“Nope, not that I know of.” Chanel shrugs. She takes a seat beside him and crunches on the popcorn. 

“You’ve been very busy these days.” Oscar prods. Chanel snorts.

“Just work stuff. I do what’s asked of me, I clock out and I go home.” Chanel quirks an eyebrow. 

“You’re never this invested in my hectic schedule. We usually meet up whenever.” 

“You got the part.” Oscar says, handing her his phone. Chanel laughs. 

“I was going to tell you, but my contract wanted me to keep things on a tight lid until it was time to do the press releases and PR moves.” 

“You’re a whole actor, now. I can’t fucking believe it.” 

“Yeah,” Chanel shrugs, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth, “I guess I am.”

~~~

The show starts. 

Oscar sits, sandwiched between Sad Eyes and his girlfriend, who’re on the brink of a nasty breakup. His friends are circled around his couch as he plays the projector.

The first episode of Dried Ink was...a slow burn. The dialogue was dry, the build-up was there, but it took too long for the payoff. 

But episode two was where the shit hit the fan. 

The reporter Frank Diamante finally meets Honey Baby, the gogo dancer at the club he used to frequent. 

Honey Baby straddles Frank, gun in his face. She leans in with that canary-eating grin Oscar knew all too well. 

“These two are gonna fuck in the end, aren’t they?” Sad Eyes asks, taking a sip of his beer. 

“I want them to.” His girlfriend whispers, squeezing Oscar’s knee. 

They watched the entire season through, the season finale ending on a cliffhanger. Oscar and his friends scream in protest and throw popcorn at the projector.

“They better make next season have ten episodes instead of five! How can they leave us hanging in Moscow!” Sad Eyes’ girlfriend exclaims, tugging at the roots of her hair. Sad Eyes tosses an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. 

“Whoever picked that fat chick to play Honey Baby was smart. She stole the show.” Sad Eyes remarks. His girlfriend slaps his chest.

“_Boris_ stole the show. He boiled one of his henchmen alive because he was _late_. Shit was _crazy_!”

“What part you liked, Spooky?”

Eyes were on him. 

“When Honey Baby seduced Boris and shot him.” Oscar replies.

“Yo, that was hella crazy! I really thought she was going to fucking double-cross Frank for a second!”

“No, ‘cause Frank was the first person she allowed herself to be vulnerable with. Why betray someone who knows you at your weakest?”

“Let’s go, Katrina. Thanks for the viewing party, homie. ‘Preciate it.” Sad Eyes says, grabbing his girlfriend’s hand and guiding her to the exit. 

Oscar, alone, replays the show, fastforwarding the scene in episode five. Honey Baby is wearing a nightie, seducing Boris with a coy smile and her hand down his pants. 

Oscar’s pants tighten. 

Honey Baby drops to her knees, pants around Boris’ ankles. 

Oscar unzips his pants. 

She slips her panties off and straddles Boris, purring and licking at his neck. 

Oscar closes his eyes.

_ Chanel, in a babydoll nightie, smiles at him as she bounces, her soft thighs holding him in place._

He’s stroking in rhythmic motions. 

_Chanel has her trademark smirk, leaning over until her breasts are in his face._

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses.

_ Chanel points the gun in his face, her face cold. “Die, my darling,” she says in fluent Russian, before pulling the trigger._

Oscar comes with a startled gasp. He catches his breath and opens his eyes. Wiping the residue onto his pants, he snatches the rest of his beer and downs it in one gulp.

~~~ 

“I’m going to Seoul for a couple of weeks.” 

Oscar spits out his soda. Chanel is adjusting the strap on her shoe. 

“It’s this magazine article that wants to interview me,” She explains. 

“In Korea?” Oscar asks.

“South Korea.” She corrects. She bites her lip and looks at him.

“You can come with me, if you want.”

“You want _me_...to come with _you_...to _Korea_?”

“South Korea.” 

“I...I never been...anywhere but Freeridge. This is all I know.” 

“It’ll be fun, I promise. Your little brother can come, too. It’s not too late to get two extra tickets.” 

“What’s in it for you?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?”

“What? I offered because...you’re my man. And I want to go somewhere fun with my man and have adventures, like couples do.”

Oscar freezes.

“You claiming me?”

“Yeah. I am. I like you, we been talking and dating for months now. We together. Damn near “Jump the broom” material.” 

“_Jump the broom_?”

“Southern saying. You wouldn’t get it.” She waves her hand. 

“I don’t think I want to go...across the globe.”

She nods. 

“That’s fine. Unfortunate, but fine.”

She rises from his bed and grabs her purse. 

“I’ll send you souvenirs. Lots of them.” She grins. 

“I don’t want you to go, either.”

She frowns.

“It’ll be three weeks, Oscar. I’ve got press releases and important meetings to attend to.” 

“Why, though? So you can impress those white people that didn’t give a fuck about you when you first auditioned?” 

Chanel pauses. 

“Where’s all this coming from?” She asks, her tone devoid of her usual airiness.

“You make it on a show, get a little bit of fame, and throw your money and pity in our face by parading us in a foreign country as charity.”

“Whoa hold up. You putting words in my mouth now and I don’t like that.” Chanel holds up a hand and stands in the entryway.

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime, and I wanted to celebrate it with someone I hold dear. If you wanna be miserable with your circumstances, that’s fine. _But don’t drag me down with you_.” She adds, slamming his door so hard the foundation rattles.

She comes back three weeks later. 

They go out for dinner and drinks in Chinatown. Chanel’s paying, of course. 

Oscar watches as Chanel breezes through tourists and locals with a confidence he hadn’t seen before. She practically struts, switching her hips and clopping into the pavement with her heels he fears costs more than his light bill. 

She’s dressed in a silk red dress that’s tight and has slits that stop above her thigh and a long black wig that falls down her back with bangs and sideburns that cut straight across and frames her round face. Her eyes, heavy with liner and lashes, reminds him of what drew him to her.

“So,” She asks, picking up a piece of barbecued pork with her chopsticks, “what’s been new with you?”

“Same ol’, same ol’,” Oscar says dismissively, struggling to pick up the pork with his chopsticks before resigning to using his fork. Chanel reaches over, her jade bracelets clattering softly as she grabs his hand. 

“Hold the chopsticks like this,” she instructs. 

“It’s fine. I’ll use the fork.” Oscar rebuffs.

“It’s easy, you just need some practice--”

“Drop it.” 

Chanel frowns. 

“Okay.” She says, resigning to chew on her chow mein.

Oscar looks at her deflated face and sighs. 

“You look beautiful.” He offers. Chanel smiles.

“Know I had to look good for you, Spooky.” She grins, her gold tooth visible.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. She snorts.

“You know you ain’t got to ask!”

“Didn’t want to ruin your makeup.”

“That’s why I always carry lipstick and lipgloss in my purse.” 

She’s in his face now, cupping his cheek with her long manicured nails. Black gel acrylics with red polish painted inside, like a red bottom shoe. 

“You bougie now, huh?” He challenges, biting his lip. Chanel kisses him anyway, slipping her tongue into his mouth.

This is new.

“Let’s get out of here. I want some dessert.” She breathes against her lips, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

He grabs her before the waiter can notice they’re gone and fucks her against the wall in the privacy of the dark alley, her moans and pants drowned out by the hustle and bustle of city life.


	4. Etouffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A death of a relationship.

“You want me to tell you a ghost story?”

Oscar’s hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Chanel is on all fours, scrubbing the tiles in her bathroom with a scrubber and a bucket of solution she made. 

He leans against the door frame, trying to look far from the scared little boy inside who’s _terrified_ of ghosts. 

“What’s the story?” He asks. Chanel hums and looks up. 

“Before we moved to New Orleans, Mama, Eddie, and I lived in this parish on the border of Louisiana and Mississippi. It was an all-black town with a plantation that everybody knew not to go near because of the bad juju.” 

She frowned. 

“One day, this white man moved to this parish, bought the plantation and lived there. His name is...Francis Charley, but everybody knew to call him Mr. Charley. We were scared of him because if something happened to him on those grounds, it would’ve been like Rosewood all over again.” Chanel shakes her head. 

“Anyway, Mr. Charley was a huge racist. He enjoyed antagonizing the folks because he knew he could get away with it. After a while, we paid him no mind. We just knew to avoid him at all costs.” Chanel dipped the scrubber in the bucket before scrubbing the toilet. 

“Anyway, Mama was struggling to find work. The places she applied to didn’t call back and it didn’t help that she had a criminal record. One day, I don’t know how, Mr. Charley offered her a job and she took it. She took me with her because she didn’t feel comfortable leaving me at the house by myself.”

“What about Eddie?” Oscar asked. 

“Eddie was starting his first year at Xavier.” Chanel answers. 

“Mr. Charley hired Mama and me to work for him as his housekeepers. He was such an asshole. He is the type of man that if you cleaned his kitchen top to bottom he’d pour wine on the freshly mopped floor, slide his finger on some imaginary dust, and tell you to clean it again.” Chanel starts scrubbing her bathtub.

“Mind you, Mama and I stuck together. We _never_ cleaned a room by our lonesome. Mr. Charley always tried to separate us but Mama was always finding loopholes to stay together.”

Chanel stops scrubbing. Her expression turns somber. 

“Until one day, he got me alone, and...I don’t want to go into too much detail, but he tried to do stuff with me that I didn’t want.” 

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I…” Oscar grabbed her shoulder. 

“It’s fine.” Chanel holds her hand up.

“The night it happened, I told Mama right away. And she told me, ‘don’t you worry bout a thing, I’ll handle it.’ So, I took her word and didn’t think much of it. And that’s when things started happening.” 

“What things?”

“My bedroom door would fly open out of nowhere. My windows would just shut on their own and I’d always feel like...I’m not alone. Like I’m being stalked. That’s just the beginning.”

Chanel lifts up her arm to show a scar.

“I was upstairs with laundry and before I could make a step downstairs I felt someone push me down the stairs. Busted my arm up real bad. Got stitches.” She lifts up her stomach. 

“I’d hear someone laughing in my bedroom, and then the person laughing would lay in my bed beside me. I knew better than to look at who it was. I had nights where I woke up screaming and don’t know why, and get these bruises and handprints all over my body the next morning.”

She pulls down her shirt.

“I told Mama, I said, ‘the bad juju got on me.’ And honey, she did everything short of taking me to The Pope himself.” She laughs. 

“But nothing worked. That presence got more and more aggressive. I would get scratch marks up and down my back, my hair would be pulled and one night I felt someone choke me with their hands wrapped around my neck,” Chanel circles her hands around her neck, “and I couldn’t see who was doing it. I could only hear that laughing.”

“Then, the weirdest thing was there was this smell. A horrific smell. Like rotting meat and swamp water. And the whole town could smell it too. Somebody went to investigate, come to found out Mr. Charley was dead in his bathtub. He’d been dead for weeks and nobody knew to check on him.” 

“How’d he die in the bathtub?” Oscar asks.

“Coroner came in and said he died from poisoning and drowning. But because he was so decomposed the evidence more than likely got contaminated and there were no suspects.” 

“Who do you think killed him?”

“You ain’t heard it from me, but…” Chanel smirks, “Everybody in that town knew Mama was involved, and they also knew to keep their mouth shut.” 

“Your mama isn’t one to be fucked with,” Oscar says. Chanel shakes her head.

“No, she’s not.” She adds. She plops the scrubber into the bucket.

“So, the paranormal activity stopped the second we found his body. But sometimes, that chair in my living room would start rocking...and that laughing would come back. Whatever that spirit was, it knew it couldn’t come to my bedroom because it’d been blessed and salted. I don’t know how long that’ll last.” 

There was a sharp creaking noise outside the bathroom. 

The two freeze, eyeing each other. Quietly, the two walk to the source of the creaking, and Oscar’s hairs on the back of his neck shot up. 

There, front and center is Chanel’s rocking chair rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion, depression marks in the chair indicating someone is sitting in it. 

Oscar feels a burst of deep laughter right behind him and something grabbing his arm.

He shrieks and turns his body around, ready for combat. Chanel starts laughing.

“Got you scared, didn’t I?” She cackles, rubbing his hand. He snatches it away. 

You play too fucking much.” He snarls. She kisses his wrist softly. 

“Forgive me,” she pouts. He grunts. 

“How’d you make the chair rock like that?” He asks.

“It always rocks like that. It’s been like that since I was little.” Chanel waves her hand. She retreats to the bathroom, leaving Oscar staring at the rocking chair that seems to rock on its own, the chills shooting up his spine. 

He makes a brisk walk to the bathroom.

~~~  
Oscar sits at another kickback with a beer in his hand, fighting the urge to check his phone.

It’s been weeks since Chanel and he spoke or spent time together; she had another project she had to work on and it cut into their already dwindling quality time. 

Sad Eyes reigns champion after an aggressive bout of shots and raises his glass to Oscar, coaxing him to join in.

Fuck it. 

One shot in he’s feeling warm. Two shots in he’s finally enjoying himself. Three shots in he’s finally at ease and relaxed. By the fifth shot, he’s earning cheers and pats on the shoulder before reaching for the sixth glass. Six shots in, he’s on the couch, trying to maintain his facade of soberness while checking his phone. 

Nothing from Chanel. 

Don’t text her, don’t text her, don’t text her…

“Hey, man. You good?” Sad Eyes asks, taking a seat next to him. 

“Yeah,” Oscar answers. Sad Eyes leans in to look at his phone. 

“Why you staring at that one girl? Got a crush on her?” 

Oscar looks down and notices he’s on Chanel’s Instagram page, his thumb halting mid-scroll. 

“She kinda look like that one girl that shoved a plate to your face.” Sad Eyes says with a squint. 

“That’s her,” Oscar says with a chuckle. 

“Holy shit, you fucking celebs, now?” Sad Eyes fist bumps him. Oscar knocks back the rest of his beer and nods.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” 

He still stares at her Instagram page, his thumb tapping her recent post of her getting ice cream with what appears to be her male co-star. 

“Today, I’m here with Nicholas and we’re getting ice cream in San Francisco for our new series coming to you soon! How you feeling?” Chanel greets the camera, holding her mint-chocolate ice cream. 

Her accent is completely erased and replaced with an LA one. 

Somehow, he’s turned _off_.

Without thinking, he double taps her post. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Oscar hisses to himself, unliking the photo and exiting her page. 

“Rookie move, homie. You lurk on your fake account, not your main.” Sad Eyes tuts, shaking his head and taking a sip of his own beer.

~~~

“The trick to a delicious etouffee is how you smother it.” 

Oscar’s mouth opens and Chanel shoves a spoonful into his mouth. He moans in approval. 

“It’s good.” He says. Chanel nods and guides him to sit down with her. Her faded peach finger waves are now cotton candy blue, a contrast to her red lipstick and cat eyes. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been busy lately. I ain’t forgot about you, that’s why you got a home-cooked meal, by yours truly.” She smiles, flashing her gold tooth. 

“You’re forgiven.” He hums, taking another spoonful. 

“How was your day, baby?”

“It was good. Enough about me,” Oscar pulls her close to him, “what about you?”

“I’ve been good, just wrapped up for the last episode.” 

“What happens?” 

“I signed an NDA. I let one word slip and I got a fat lawsuit on my person.” 

“Not even a vague hint?” 

Chanel shakes her head and shoves another spoonful in his mouth. 

“I got some good news,” she starts, “I’m going to Tokyo.”

“What?”

“Only for a few months. It’s for this foreign film I’m doing. I won’t be able to contact you for a while because I’ll be busy.” 

“That’s...great. Cool.” Oscar shovels more etouffee into his mouth.

“You don’t sound too happy.” Chanel frowns. 

“How do you want me to respond? You just told me you’re going across the world for a film.”

“You’re supposed to be excited for me and happy I even could do those types of things.” 

“I don’t get happy over shit like that.” 

“You know what? I’m going. I don’t need your permission.”

“Never asked for it anyway.” 

Chanel grits her teeth and shuts her eyes.

“Why are you so _difficult_?” She hisses, “why can’t you be happy for me?” 

“Because you’ve _changed_!” 

A pause. 

“Isn’t that how you grow?” She asks softly. She looks down. 

“Spooky...you think we’re...too different to be together?” 

“Are you breaking up with me?” 

The two lock eyes before Chanel looks away.

“I don’t wanna fight no more,” She confesses, “so yes. Ever since I started getting bookings and going places, you’ve just been negative. You make loving you…_hard_, and I don’t want a relationship where I’m being _smothered_. ” 

Oscar sucks his teeth. 

“Fine.” He rises from the table and snatches his coat.

“Spooky,” Chanel calls after him, but he slammed her door so hard the foundation rattled and storms off to his car.


	5. Gumbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again, and Chanel gives him an out.

Oscar came to Chanel’s apartment three days later.

Holding a bouquet of flowers and chocolates to sweeten the deal, he marches to the front door of her apartment and knocks. 

No answer. 

He knocks again, harder this time, and the front door opens with an eerie creak. 

He’s greeted by complete darkness, save for a crack of sunlight through the front window. He cautiously steps inside, setting down the chocolates and flowers with his other hand resting on his gun that is tucked into his pants. 

He fumbles through the darkness until his fingers find a light switch and he turns it on. 

The furniture is gone, the familiar smells of incense and seasoned meats are nonexistent. Every trace of Chanel has been wiped clean; Oscar had to check the apartment number to make sure he didn’t go to the wrong apartment. 

He walks to the front lobby and slams the bell for assistance. 

An elderly white woman comes to the front, fixing her thick glasses. 

“Yes?” She asks him. 

“Have you seen this woman?” Oscar digs into his wallet and pulls out her photo. The woman takes the photo and squints. She hands it back to him. 

“I’ve never seen this woman a day in my life.” She tells him. 

“No, no. She was a tenant here, she...she moved here months ago…”

“I know everybody in this apartment complex. I’ve never seen her before. I’m sorry.” She shrugs her shoulders. 

Oscar leaves the lobby, Chanel’s photo burning a hole in his pocket. 

~~~

Oscar wakes up in a cold sweat. In the shadows, he can see her. She’s staring out the window, the pale moonlight giving her a ghostly glow. She turns to face him; Oscar’s heart hammers in his chest. She’s on his bed, crawling over him until she straddles his body. He’s frozen in place; as hard as he tries to move, he can’t. 

She leans down, her breasts pressed against his chest as she strokes his face with her manicured nails. She brushes her lips against his ear, and says, 

_”You miss me, don’t you?”_

She disappears in a plume of smoke. Oscar gains his movement and shoots up out of his bed, almost tangling himself in the sheets. He staggers through the darkness until he finds the kitchen. He downs glass after glass of water until the feverish chills subside and he feels his heart rate stabilize. 

The hallway light flickers on. 

“Oscar?” Cesar’s groggy voice breaks out through the silence. He comes into the kitchen and flicks on the light. 

“Did you have...a nightmare?” Cesar asks, eyeing him up and down. 

“Go to bed, Cesar.” Oscar snaps, but corrects himself. 

“Yeah. Something like that.” 

“What was it about?” 

Oscar pauses. 

“A ghost.” He says, pouring himself another glass and splashing the water into his face.

~~~

Months had passed. Months became a year, and that year became two. The memory of Chanel all but faded to a fever dream he swore he had that felt too real. 

He finds himself walking to the Botanica once more; another one of his friends had gotten killed in a drive-by. He walks down the aisles, grabbing candles. He sees a Virgin Mary candle and reaches out to grab the candle but a delicate hand with neon pink and garishly long nails grabs it first. He gets a whiff of Pink Sugar perfume and his heart skips a beat. 

Slowly, he turns to face the owner of the hand and is greeted with hazel-green cat eyes that seemed to stare into his soul. 

His mouth goes dry, the words dying on his tongue. Chanel stares at him, her hand slipping away from the candle. 

“Where did you go?” Oscar says with a whisper. She looks away. 

“Houston. Had to disappear for a while.” 

“For two fucking years?” 

“I had my reasons. But none of that matters, now. I’m here, ain’t I?”

“For how long,_ Ella-Marie_?” 

She flinches. 

“I go by Chanel these days.” She says, correcting her posture. 

“Are you going to disappear again?” He invades her personal space. He’d forgotten how short she was. 

“I don’t know. I come and go as I please.” She says. He grabs her hand. 

“Stay.” He says. She smiles softly. 

“I’m in town for a couple of months, and then I have to go back to Houston.”

“Let’s make the most out of your time while you’re here.” 

~~~

The next few weeks pass by in a haze: the late night dates, the sleepy afternoons lying in Oscar’s bed making love, the aromas of Southern and Mexican cooking that erupt from his kitchen. Chanel is now lying in his bed, snoring softly while Oscar checks his phone. 

A meeting with Cuchillos.

He looks over at a sleeping Chanel and slips out of bed. 

~~~

“That woman is nothing but trouble,” She warns when he comes back. She takes off her necklace and tosses it to him. 

“Gris gris,” she explains as Oscar looks at it. A cord necklace with a pouch that reeks of herbs and nature. 

“It’s going to protect you.” She says. Oscar tucks the necklace in his pocket and kisses her on the forehead. 

“I’ll be fine.” He says. 

She shakes her head. 

“I talked to the spirits about you, and even did a reading. Death is gonna follow you if you keep messing with her.” 

“Never meant to live long anyway.” 

Chanel purses her lips. 

I kept having visions of you buried in the woods with a bullet in your head.” 

Chills shoot down Oscar’s spine. 

“Wear the fucking amulet.” She hisses. 

~~~

Oscar comes to Chanel, bloodied and bruised. He had survived his ordeal with Cuchillos and had come out victorious. 

Chanel cleans the blood from his face, taking care to be gentle with the stitches in his collarbone. 

“Do you want to live like this forever?” She asks, and Oscar isn’t sure if he could give a straight answer. 

~~~

He sits across Chanel, dipping his spoon into the gumbo before taking a bite. 

“You can always...come with me to Houston. You can take your little brother too.” Chanel offers. He eyes her, setting down the spoon. 

“Never left California before.” He says. She smiles. 

“Mississippi, Texas, Louisiana…_California_. It’s all the same after you been moving for a while. You get used to it.” 

She grabs his hand and squeezes. 

“Don’t you want a fresh start? Go to a new place where no one knows who you are?”

“Is that what happened with you?” 

She removes her hand. 

“I had to. I wasn’t going to survive otherwise.”

“Maybe...I’ll like it. Get a job, save up some money, live a simple life.”

“You’ll love it in Houston. And I have a nice apartment that can house the three of us.” 

Oscar looks around his dilapidated home and reaches for her hand again. 

“I can give you everything you want and more,” she breathes out. “You just have to let me.” 

Oscar kisses her palm. 

“I want to, but I can’t. I have unfinished business here.” 

“I’ll wait for you.” She says, squeezing his hand. “But don’t keep me waiting forever.” 

She’s gone the morning after. Oscar rolls over to his side and smells the Pink Sugar perfume in his sheets. 

The plane tickets to Houston greet him on his nightstand, his and Cesar’s names stamped clear as day. He grabs the tickets, stares at them, and knocks on Cesar’s door. Cesar answers, rubbing sleep from his eye.

“Cesar,” Oscar starts. “How do you feel about moving to Houston?”


End file.
